


His Name Is Merlin

by HiMiTSu



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin Backstoy, Romance, Torture, not graphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losely based on this post http://slackerpentecost.tumblr.com/post/113562160028/yes-good-like-merlin-getting-tortured-lots-of<br/>(the first part)</p><p>A mission goes wrong and a knight gets captured. Days in captivity filled with pain and torture. Will he ever be able to come home, and if he will what awaits him there?</p><p>(A backstory of how one of the Kingsman knights became a Merlin)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Name Is Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Based on this post http://slackerpentecost.tumblr.com/post/113562160028/yes-good-like-merlin-getting-tortured-lots-of  
> The first headcannon, though I didn't follow it all.
> 
> Sorry for any inaccuracies. I try to make it sound like I know at least something about the subjects I’m writing about; such as parachutes or how secret agencies work. My knowledge mostly comes from the Bond movies and Agents Of SHIELD. 
> 
> Also I did not want to come up with new names for Merlin, so I had to work around that somehow. (Which means I do not mention it at all through the story). I hope it turned out alright. Feedback is very appreciated:)

Everything is shaking; he’s so unstable on his feet he has to grab a handrail. It’s at that moment that he realizes things are not going according to plan.

The pilot’s voice, creaky and rough in his earpiece, shouts out in alarm and the plane is shaken once again. The Knight shouts back, urging the pilot to give it up and join him at the rear opening of the plane, a parachute at the ready, but the foolish man believes there is still something he can do. There is nothing, it’s more obvious to a clear mind.

The rough lurching of the plane stops, but now the whole contraption is shaking all over, metal struggling to keep together under pressure. One direct hit and they are done.

He shouts for the pilot again, and when there is no reply, he hits a button to get the lower part of the plane open up, getting ready to jump.

There is a logic to the pilot’s panic – there is something to be said about not wanting to land in the middle of enemy territory, but the Knight would better take this chance over the plane managing to reach a safe distance. At the rate they are going, the plane will be blow to pieces in a matter of minutes.

A gaping darkness opens in front of him, lighted up only by the bursts of fire from the weaponry aimed at their plane.

Wind is blowing in his face, air ice cold and piercing; his eyes sting and it’s hard to breathe but it’s not his first jump and he knows how to disregard all that. The altitude is not enough for a safe jump, but he sees no other choice.

So he plunges into the darkness.

* * *

 

He free falls, trying to keep track of how far from the ground he is; it’s dangerous to open the parachute too soon, the darkness of the cloudy night is encompassing but with bright search lights disturbing the sky the enemy will be quick to spot him. Still if the parachute is opened too late his meeting with the ground will be mercilessly hard. He remembers the maps, and while it’s enough to give him some sense of direction it’s by far not enough to recall every detail of the landscape and have any feel of where he’s going to land.

The sound of fire is becoming distant, as the enemy is still bombarding the plane, but then there is a deafening explosion – the plane hit, the pilot probably dead – and a bright flash erupts in the sky. He’s lurched to the side, panic rising because it’s hard to stabilize his position, but he clamps down on any unnecessary feelings, slowly working to right his fall. He just hopes that the flash of the explosion wasn’t enough to broadcast his position to everyone on the ground.

The Knight pulls the pin and the parachute snaps open with a jerk. He tries to navigate, but the wind is strong so his pulls and tugs do nothing to help and he knows it’s out of his hands now; he’s losing all illusions of control. The knowledge that his speed is too high for a safe landing is not a revelation and he’s already mentally counting how many bones he might break and how he’s going to escape in such a condition.

The impact is unexpected, darkness having played with his perception, and he hits the ground at a bad angle. Left leg flares up in pain and he falls onto his side, bruising a shoulder but hopefully not breaking anything else. Ignoring the pain the Knight scrambles out of the parachute at his back and his hand flies to the gun at his side as soon as he’s free.

Getting to his feet is hard – left ankle definitely broken, but at least it’s not an open fracture –he hobbles anyway, looking around first and then starting into the direction he believes safety lies. They telephoned headquarters from the plane, so a rescue operation should be under way but it will take them hours to get here. He just needs to last until their arrival and then the GPS tracker implanted under his skin will show them the way.

There is a syringe full of painkillers in his kit – one blessing, and the Knight plunges the needle right into the flesh above the ankle. It takes merely a moment to start working and soon he’s on a light run across a field. He has to crouch so he can go unnoticed in the tall grass, and it’s sure to further aggravate his injury but for now there is no pain and only one goal: get as far away from the enemy camp as possible. There is no talk about going on with the mission; not after their plane had been detected by the enemy.

The Knight is a professional, he not only knows all the protocols by heart, he also has experience with these kinds of situations. A trained agent – a Kingsman. Surprising how much that actually means to him.

Barking breaks the quiet of the night around him and he swears under his breath. They brought the dogs for pursuit. That does not bode well.

He increases his pace, slightly out of breath, and plunges through the wet dirt under his feet. His hand is sweaty over the handle of his gun, but completely stable. The Knight’s movements create very little disturbance and noise, but the dogs won’t care for that. Those dogs were trained to hunt human.

As he rushes through the high grass, green blades swish at his face, leaving small tingling cuts. The night is dark so it’s hard to see far ahead, the direction is right though, of that he is sure, but the distance… The distance is difficult to evaluate; and luck is not something an agent should rely on.

Anyway, he had never been lucky. And luck is on the other side right now too.

The barking grows closer and he can also hear shouting of the soldiers. They are drawing close.

Closer than he originally thought.

There is a bang and a rain of bullets. First one hits the ground at his feet but misses, the second one doesn’t reach him as he picks up the pace, full on running now, making unexpected turns and ducking even lower.

It doesn’t help.

A bullet finally catches up to him, hitting his shoulder. But that’s nothing he can’t cope with. A squad of soldiers catching up with him however… He manages to get three of them, injure two and kill one, before they swarm him.

The Knight fights back, but there is too many of them. He gets a hit on the head that sends him to his knees, broken ankle treacherously buckling under the weight; he uses the position to swipe the feet from under his attacker on the right but the man on the left hits him in the temple and this time the darkness overwhelms.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

* * *

 

Waking up is like dragging himself through the ice cold water to the surface and scratching his way up a stone wall.

Perception of time is skewed but its light outside when he comes to, so it’s a logical assumption that he was out for more than twelve hours. The painkillers had worn off and it was the pain that actually woke him up. A glance around trough half lidded eyes provides a view of a dank little cell with a tiny window up under the ceiling.

His brain calculates the odds. Bullet through the shoulder is merely a flesh wound, not a big concern, but the broken ankle will prove to be a hindrance for a possible escape. He is light headed, but it will pass, he knows, and the head ache from the blow to his temple will recede eventually.

The Knight tries to move his hands – bound behind his back. Thick ropes are chafing his wrists, drawing blood, and his fingers run over the knots, checking for any weakness. There is none, so taking those off by himself is not an option.

He lies on the cold cement floor for hours, fighting off the pain and strategizing, but there is not much he can do for now. The door swings open, screeching echoing in a long hall behind – he catches just a glimpse of two guards outside – as a man in a military uniform steps in. Only when the door is closed the Knight focuses his attention on the soldier. The man says something in broken English, demanding information but gets no reply. A threat of torture is imminent, but betraying fellow Kingsmen is not something a Knight can do.

* * *

 

They beat him up, breaking bones and leaving bruises. He does not cry out, despite how hard they try to break him. His captors wear military uniforms but they are certainly not soldiers and their torture methods lack finesse. It mostly consists of tying him to a chair and beating the living crap out of him. That’s not enough to take down a Kingsman. They try sensory deprivation once, the next day they dank his head in a bucket of iced water but they don’t seem to understand the purpose and workings of that particular method.

At one point, alone, he wonders why the rescue squad takes too long to get to him. Kingsmen never abandon their own; there is no doubt in his mind that they’ll come for him.

The Knight remembers his fellow agents, their strength and loyalty.

Out of all his mind easily provides an image of Galahad.

Strong and confident and sure with a gun. Every move, be it lifting a tea cup to his lips, or breaking someone’s neck, elegant and full of dignity. Strong to the core but soft on the surface. A true professional with a charm and skills to match. Galahad’s smiles are polite and pleasant, but still aloof and detached.

Harry, on the other hand, _Harry_ is sweet and nice. He helps anyone who is in trouble, genuinely enjoying their grateful smiles, and has a soft spot for small children.

His eyes, rich brown and radiant when he laughs – a sound that is always soft and low – one of the most pleasant things a person can hear in their lives. Well, if that person is in love with Harry Hart, that is.

Heavy steps out in the hallway break the beautiful fantasy and the Knight has to steel himself for more torture.

* * *

 

At some point they decided to try drugs. One of the guards sticks a needle into his arm, though the Knight is more concerned with how clean the syringe is, than with whatever is running through his veins. Whichever drug they managed to get their hands on, it’s bound to be something primitive – as their whole organization is, so he’s sure he’d be able to withstand the effects.

The soldiers leave right after making the injection, giving the substance time to take hold over his mind.

The Knight has to fight a smile as the door locks after his captors. A drug to dull his senses is just the thing he needs to get over the pain. He stays still, breathing deeply, waiting for the dull throb in his left ankle to recede. A bullet wound in the shoulder, crudely bandaged, is just a minor concern compared to how his ribs hurt and how the right side of his face feels like one giant bruise. An eyelid is falling heavily over his eye, which is probably bloodshot, so he is barely able to see.

Drugs start working fairly quickly, considering the dose he was given, so the next time the door opens and his tormentor enters, the Knight doesn’t hesitate. He charges at the soldier, hands gripping a chair he’s still tied to, and rams the man in his solar plexus with his head. The soldier doubles over in pain, gasping for breath, but the Knight doesn’t pause and knees him in the face. The man goes reeling back, falling over and the Knight finishes his attack, knocking him unconscious. A knife at the soldier’s belt proves to be as sharp as it looks and cuts through the rope in a matter of seconds. Just like that the Knight is free and stepping over the prone body of his assailant.

He grabs a key chain as well a gun from the man, and gets moving. The corridors with their dirty yellow walls blend in together, but he never stops, determinately putting one foot in front of each other despite a dizziness he feels. This way the Knight takes out one more soldier. He gets vertigo when he spins at the sound of approaching footsteps from behind, his aim off but manages to stabilize his hand and get a hit. After that he runs.

His escape was bound to gain attention, they are searching the building for him, but fortunately there are no cameras to help them detect his whereabouts. His mind is getting cloudy and it doesn’t help with his navigation skills but he knows that stopping equals captivity or even death.

The drug must have hallucinating as one of its effects, because it seems to him that he hears sounds of commotion outside, which is ridiculous since his captors must be aware he has not left the building yet. In fact, the Knight takes stairs up, hoping to throw his pursuers off and in need of a good point for a look around. He still isn’t sure about the precise location of the base and its surroundings.

The Knight gets to the roof without trouble and, upon reaching the edge sees why. His eyes gaze in wonder at the bright spot in the sky; roaring sound fills his ears. This can not be a hallucination. It’s a helicopter hanging over the base and, even though the Knight can’t see over the glare of its search light he is sure it has a Kingsman symbol on the side.

They came for him.

He waves his hands with a shout, even though he knows it’s a futile attempt to attract their attention. It’s more likely to give away his location to the enemy, but despite the dizziness, he feels invigorated and ready to take them on.

Helicopter’s light sweeps the territory, a couple agents on land going through the soldiers with the Kingsman brand of efficiency; it’s too far away and definitely too dark to recognize who they are.

Noise is deafening and the commotion distracting and his mind is hazy with the drug so the Knight doesn’t notice anyone sneaking up on his until it’s too late. A butt of a rifle hits him in the back and he groans in pain, his knees hitting the hard concrete. He turns around just in time to see the same rifle aimed at his face, it is shaking visibly as is the hand of a soldier holding it. On autopilot his hand raises, batting the rifle away with force and the Knight charges the soldier. They both tumble down, his attacker taking most of the impact and, without wasting time the Knight punches him in the face. He gets a kick in the gut in return and it’s impossible to hold in the cry, because the sharp pain crashes through his drugged senses. It aggravates his broken ribs, but he wills his body to move. To fight.

They squabble on the ground, each trying to get hold of the weapon.

One of his hands is on the soldier’s neck and the other is tugging the rifle from a slacking grip insistently when they both are blinded by a bright flash of light. The Kingsman helicopter’s searchlight has finally found its target.

But it’s enough to distract the Knight, his senses are dulled and reflexes slowed, and the soldier pushes up with his whole body, throwing him off. The Knight goes tumbling down, weapon falling from his grip, while he’s rolling on the floor until he manages to push himself to a standing position by the edge of the roof.

They stare each other down for a moment; from a distance comes a voice of another Kingsman, the one who is piloting the helicopter. A warning and a threat all in one, but it doesn’t matter. The Knight and his opponent are the only ones on the roof and they both know that their fight will be resolved in the next moments, before help from any side gets there.

The soldier is the one to make a first move. He rushes at his opponent, but the Knight side steps the attack and makes his move. Once again they lock in a fist fight, the rifle forgotten where it got thrown aside before.

The Knight knows his strength is running out, whole body starting to feel the exhaustion and the pain of his wounds is slowly coming back. On the other hand, his mind is not getting any clearer. He fights back but its more defense than attack, the soldier pushing him back and back.

The Knight takes a swing, but the soldier catches his hand; a kick comes next, the last attempt to take down the opponent.

When they both are suddenly loosing balance, the Knight rejoices for a second; sure the childish tactic has worked. Then they are falling. But they do not hit concrete this time.

They keep falling and he knows they stepped over the roof edge in their fervor.

The Knight hears his name – a desperate scream over the speaker.

It’s the last thing he is aware of before the pain and darkness swallow him.

* * *

 

His body feels light, like he weights almost nothing and it’s such a lovely feeling, he has absolutely no desire to let go; but the reality pushes back his dreams and brings awareness, and crushes him with the weight of everything that had happened. The Knight has to struggle to open his eyes, eyelids heavy and the light hitting his retinas. He tries to say something, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a groan. It’s enough to draw attention of another person in the room though; a blurred figure at his right moves, probably leaning closer.

The figure speaks, calling out for a doctor or a nurse, and the Knight relaxes back into the bed. He knows this voice. He loves this voice.

“Harry,” he tries to say, but nothing comprehensible comes out.

Harry is saying his name then, leaning over the prone form on the bed. He feels a hand on his own, squeezes it back weakly, and wants to say the words of reassurance.

Doctors come then, with tests and questions, and Harry falls back, maybe leaves entirely, he’s not sure in the commotion. And soon he’s falling asleep, or more like slipping into unconsciousness, and only hopes Harry will be here when he wakes up again.

-

There is no Harry when the Knight opens his eyes, but he’s feeling marginally better and the doctors are saying he might make a full recovery. Words like ‘might’ usually go ignored by secret agents. So he regains hope and confidence and jokes with the doctor and flirts a little with the nurses, always pleasant and polite.

That is until they tell him he had broken his spine severely when he fell from the roof. A pleasant smile falls from his face and it takes a lot will-power to keep a neutral expression. The doctor in charge of his treatment makes an attempt to put a positive spin even on news like that, saying they will determine the seriousness of his situation and then decide on treatment and physical therapy.

They run tests and the relief that washes over him when it turns out he can still move his legs and arms is great; even though it will be a long time before he’ll be able to freely move around, to get up and walk and fully function again, he is happy. An injury like that could have left him an invalid, but now he’s sure after months of tough physical therapy he’d be just as good as new.

That though is enough to outweigh the worry that Harry did not turn up to visit again.

* * *

 

Arthur comes in, along with him Elyan and Galahad; their solemn looks setting off the first tingle of worry.

Arthur smiles, congratulating him on surviving, and it’s sincere but tense. His eyes, they hold a dash of happiness and a lot of pity. The Knight glances at Harry, sees the sadness, carefully masked, and suddenly he knows what is about to happen.

“Your doctor says you’ll make a full recovery. There will be therapy, of course. And it won’t be pleasant.” Arthur starts. A small smile lifts the corners of his lips for a moment – meant to be reassuring. It only makes dread slowly crawl up his spine. “But your injuries were too severe. There is bound to be some lasting damage still. And…our medical staff will not clear you for combat. Or for any kind of field work for that matter.”

He closes his eyes not to see the pity on their faces. He’s done as an agent – the works of his life finished.

He wants them to leave, all of them, including Harry so he can delve into self-pity – he needs just a small moment of weakness before he starts making plans on how to continue his now meaningless existence.

But they are not leaving, though thankfully none offer any words of sympathy.

It’s Elyan who breaks the silence. “We still can’t figure out what had happened to the plane’s equipment for stealth technology. No access to the plane or the black box leaves our technicians with a lot of theories and no way to find out the truth.”

“There was nothing wrong with stealth.” He finds himself saying; mind concentrating on that to escape the despair building up inside. “Our navigation went crazy. Practically flying right into the enemy base: we were bound to be noticed.”

“We’ll inform our technicians.” Elyan promises.

“That is also the reason you weren’t able to find me quickly, isn’t it?”

It’s Harry who replies, his voice hollow. “Your GPS transmitter wasn’t responding properly.”

“I want to have a look at it.” He says and it receives three identical surprised stares.

“From the hospital bed?” Arthur asks.

He would have shrugged if he was allowed to move this excessively with a broken spine.

“Technology always makes him feel better.” Harry replies, there a smile in his voice and warmth in his eyes. Never before had Galahad allowed anyone else see his affection. “He’s our computer wizard.”

Arthur’s gaze turns contemplative as he asks the other two Knights to leave. When they are alone he weaves a tale of Kingsmen, one that he usually tells to new recruits, but this time it revolves around a new figure. “It’s been a long time since the Kingsman had a proper quartermaster.” Arthur proclaims and there is a twinkle in his eyes and a new name on his lips.

And that’s how a new Merlin is born.

* * *

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

It’s a lovely morning when Harry drops in for another visit.

“Hello,” he hesitates before sitting in a chair by the hospital bed. “Merlin.”

Merlin – that is his name now. It’s a little sad to be switching pseudonyms but he will be the first to admit that this one suits better than any other had in the past. It’s like he’s finally putting on a suit that is a perfect fit.

Harry doesn’t understand it yet so he’s a tad bit apprehensive.

“Hello.” Merlin replies and smiles. He sees Harry’s shoulders relax, his tense posture molding into the uncomfortable seat.

“How have you been feeling?” Harry winces at his own questions and tries to amend it with, “Over all I mean. I know the recovery will take time, but you seem to be in a better mood.”

“I am in a better mood indeed,” Merlin nods and reaches out with his hand. Harry doesn’t hesitate before entwining their fingers. “I do have a very nice job prospect after all.”

Harry’s smile grows; it reaches his eyes and graces his whole face, making him radiant and beautiful; that’s the sight Merlin wasn’t sure he’d ever get to see again. Now that he had this, _Harry_ , within his reach he doesn’t want to let go. The moment stretches, growing serious, and Harry’s smile falls slowly, hesitantly. He looks down at their joined hands. “You scared me.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, there is nothing he can say, but squeezed Harry’s fingers in reassurance.

“We couldn’t find you. With every passing day with no news…” His breathing hitches and the grip on Merlin’s fingers is almost painful. “I was losing hope.” He admits in half-whisper, a dark truth he had been hiding away.

“It’s fine now.” Merlin promises when it becomes obvious Harry is done with his confession.

“I know.” The other man replies, more confidence is his voice as he meets Merlin’s eyes. There is determination in them, a decision made with a resolve to see it through. Merlin holds his breath, not daring to hope that it’s the same decision that had been weighing down on him.

Harry moves closer, his movements slow with uncertainty, leaning over the bed. He never lets go of Merlin’s hand, but eases his grip as he plants a soft kiss on Merlin’s lips.

It’s nothing more than a soft press, gentle but also careful and fearful. Merlin would love to bring his hands around Harry’s neck, drag him closer and kiss back with fervor, show how much he wants this, pour all the desire and longing into their first kiss. Unfortunately, he can’t move his back whatsoever. So there is absolutely nothing he can do when Harry pulls away and settles back in his chair.

“I hope I’m not acting presumptuous.” He says, but a sly grin playing on his full lips proves that he is perfectly aware of how much Merlin wants this.

Merlin rolls his eyes – one expression still available to him. “I’d be very thankful if you could just move closer and do that again. In fact, it might make my recovery faster if you just stayed by my side all the time.”

“I highly doubt that,” comes Harry’s teasing reply. He sobers up for a moment to add. “I, however, will visit as much as I can.”

He leans in to still another kiss, lingering for a moment to savor the feeling.

“I thought you were very keen of following the regulations on inter-agents relations.” Merlin brings it up as a joke, but an unsettling feeling that this was what had been holding them back for years gnaws at him. He had loved Harry for so long; half of that time he knew that Harry felt the same way. However they both knew that acting upon those feeling will be against the rules; it might ruin them both as well as come as a big hindrance in their work.

“I almost lost you.” Harry says, sounding unsure and small and it’s breaking Merlin’s heart to see him like this. “It doesn’t matter, if we are together or not, these feelings will not go away.”

Merlin knows that; he had more than enough time to come to terms with that hard truth. He brings Harry’s hands to his lips – it’s an awkward gesture in his position but it puts a smile back oh Harry’s face.

“And I’m not exactly a knight anymore.”

“No you are not,” Harry shakes his head, sad and resigned and a tad bit wistful. “You are something else, Merlin.”

There is a warmth spreading through his insides and his heart rate picks up; its excitement and relief and love all at once. A hope for a happy future and the change that might be for the best after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is some shameless self-promotion. I'm on tumblr as mysteryismyart and I'm mostly reblogging Kingsman stuff these days as well as cross-posting my stories there. If anyone ever feels the need to gush about this movie or it's amazing characters feel free to send me an ask:)


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